Say You Love Me

by Marion Husband

  ‘He should move on.’

  ‘He’s an old man.’

  ‘It’s a cold house – impractical. I’ve always hated it.’ Vehemently he said, ‘From the day I set foot in that house I hated it. Don’t you remember how it was? So dark and freezing cold? So bloody disorganised? You would have thought they might have cleaned up a little… Do you remember all the tea chests in the hall when we first arrived, as if they were going somewhere? How bloody tactless was that?’

  The chests had been made of pale, rough wood stamped with black letters he couldn’t bring himself to make sense of. The woman who had gently suggested that he should call her Joy had ignored the chests as she led him to the kitchen where tea and toast was promised. ‘Or would you prefer squash?’ Her voice had risen a little; she’d sounded anxious. Her anxiety had frightened him; like the ominous tea chests it reminded him that grown-ups weren’t to be trusted.

  Ben looked down at his drink, turning it round and round on the beer mat. The mat read It’s Your Licence! Don’t Drink & Drive! Ben’s lip curled as though the idea of drinking at all disgusted him. He blinked and his fingers went to his eye as if to stop a twitch. Mark watched him and wished he had the courage to leave, but he knew that Ben would follow him and that there would be a scene. He smiled grimly, knowing he would do anything to avoid a scene.

  Angrily Ben said, ‘You hated the house too.’

  ‘Yes. You told me it was haunted.’ Mark remembered the creaks and rattles of the old house settling for the night. He had known the noises weren’t caused by ghosts but was convinced that Danny had come for him. He would lie very still; he felt that he could will his heart to stop beating, to be utterly silent if he tried hard enough. Once, Simon had looked in on him and he’d lost control of his bowels.

  One of the blonde girls approached them. She smiled at Mark. ‘Do you have a light?’

  ‘Yes, of course…’ He fumbled in his pocket and took out his cigarettes and a book of matches. As she took the matches from him she laughed nervously. ‘I’m sorry, but you are Mark Walker, aren’t you? The writer?’

  Mark heard Ben snort and saw the girl glance at him as if she was afraid she’d said something foolish. Quickly Mark said, ‘Yes, I’m Mark Walker.’ He smiled, feeling foolish himself. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I recognised you from the photo on your book jacket…I’d heard you came from round here. I’ve just read The Burial Party .’ She blushed. ‘I loved it. I love all your books…sorry. I’m bothering you, aren’t I?’

  ‘Not at all, you’re very kind…’

  Ben said, ‘I can’t believe you recognised him from a photo.’

  The girl glanced at him, unsure of his tone that was thick with mock surprise. Awkwardly she said, ‘It’s a very good photo.’

  Ben laughed and looked down at his drink, turning and turning the glass.

  When the girl had gone back to her friend Ben said, ‘I forget you’re famous. Sometimes I see your books stacked up in Waterstones and I think My God! Who’d have thought it!’ Looking at the girl who had moved away to the bar he said, ‘You could have had her knickers off, no effort at all. Oh – but she’s not your type, is she? A bit young, a bit eager to please.’

  Mark ignored him. He thought, I hate you, I want you to die. It was a silent chant he’d used as a child; he used to feel it gave him power. He lit a cigarette and drew smoke deep into his lungs; he felt some of the tension in his chest give a little.

  Suddenly Ben said, ‘I read Burial Party.’

  Mark looked at him in surprise. He wondered if he had recognised his portrayal of Susan in the novel because sometimes it seemed so obvious that he had written about her and at other times he knew he wasn’t a good enough writer to make Susan live again. He tried to read from his brother’s expression whether he had understood the book or not but Ben only smirked.

  ‘Yes, I read it – start to finish. Good ending. Well done.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ben nodded thoughtfully. ‘Susan would have loved it.’

  Cautiously Mark said, ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes! Well, it’s a woman’s book, really, isn’t it?’ He cast him a sly glance. ‘Sue used to say…’ He frowned. ‘Now, what was it? Ah yes – that you write like a woman who hates men. Did you know that the first time she saw you she asked me if you were gay?’

  Mark concentrated on rolling the tip of his cigarette around the edge of the ashtray. He forced himself to say, ‘I think you told me that.’

  ‘Did I? I know, I’m a boring bastard.’ Ben picked up the cigarettes. ‘Can I have one of these?’ Without waiting for an answer he took one out and lit it. Exhaling, he said, ‘Yes, she asked if you were gay.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Remember when we were kids? That family that lived across from us on Tanner Street? The Harrisons? Three brothers – always one of them ready to give you a thumping. You were terrified of them, remember?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘No? I had to keep rescuing you from them – Brian Harrison – he was the biggest – built like a brick shit house? He used to call you fairy cake – remember? I thought that was quite imaginative for a thick bastard like him.’

  ‘I don’t remember you ever rescuing me.’

  ‘Well I did. I used to tell you that if you just stood up to them instead of being so petrified –’

  ‘I was five, Ben.’

  ‘And I was six, but I still knew you had to stand up for yourself.’

  ‘You never rescued me from those boys.’

  ‘You just don’t remember –’

  ‘No, Ben, I do remember. Christ – I remember when we were at Thorp Grammar –’ He stopped, thinking he wouldn’t stoop to re-living old hurts from their childhood, it would seem as though he hadn’t grown up enough to forgive him. He thought of Ben, captain of the fifth year rugby team, keeping his distance from him, denying, even when asked directly, that he was his brother. The other boys thought that it was a great joke that Ben should lie so blatantly – it give them more ammunition with which to wage their campaign of bullying. And the more he was bullied the more ashamed of him Ben became. And so the cycle went on. Try as he might he couldn’t break it. Even when he joined the Marines, even when he fought in a war, in Ben’s eyes he was always the terrified little boy who rocked Danny’s boat so catastrophically.

  Mark glanced at his brother, anger and resentment rising inside him despite his best efforts to suppress it. Catching his eye, Ben said, ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Ben laughed wearily. ‘Like you hate my guts. I don’t know, Mark – maybe you should have a think about how much hate I deserve.’

  ‘Can it be measured?’

  Ben snorted. ‘Jesus, you’re a portentous sod sometimes. Susan used to say your portentousness came out in your writing.’

  Mark thought of Susan tossing down one of his novels so that it skittered across his bedroom floor, her voice full of impatience as she said, ‘All right, tell me something – anything – is going to happen in chapter two. Tell me he murders the silly bitch with a meat axe.’

  He had laughed in an effort to disguise the hurt he’d felt. He’d been unsure of how to respond to her in those days, still believing that she would lose interest soon enough and that he could go back to being ordinarily immoral. In those days he still relished his badness; decency was for the dull.

  Ben said, ‘Look – I’m sorry. Don’t go all silent on me like you usually do. I want us to talk –’

  ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’

  ‘We’re bickering, aren’t we?’ He smiled at him and Mark had the feeling that if he were his patient he would be about to receive some very bad news indeed. Drawing deeply on his cigarette, Mark avoided his gaze. He heard Ben sigh.

  ‘Mark, it’s important we talk about what’s happened.’

  ‘Has something happened?’ He looked at Ben, as shocked as if he’d pulled a knife on him.

  ‘Not happened – t
hat’s the wrong word. I know you find this difficult but I need to discuss it with you.’ He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. At last he said, ‘I want to tell you what I’ve found out about Danny.’ For a moment Ben looked as he had as a child, scared of his own defiance, and Mark felt sick; he wondered what Ben would do if he rushed to the gents; whatever his reaction it would be a way of distracting him.

  Ben said carefully, ‘Danny’s still alive. But I suppose you’d guessed that, hadn’t you?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was flat, like that of a man who had been tortured into giving himself away. He cleared his throat so that he might sound more resilient. ‘No – how could I know?’

  ‘Not known, guessed. I guessed that Dad would have told us if he’d died.’

  Mark imagined that conversation, how Simon would sit them both down either side of him, how he would take their hands and hesitate a moment as if searching for the right – the very best – word to begin. ‘Your father –’ no, that would be wrong. ‘ Your real father –’ Even more wrong. ‘Danny,’ he could almost hear Simon sigh with the relief of realising this was the right way of referring to the man who had sired them.

  Becoming aware that Ben was waiting for a response from him, Mark said, ‘You think Dad kept in touch with him?’

  ‘I think he found a way of keeping track, as it were.’ He laughed shortly. ‘He had his sources. You’re naïve if you think he didn’t keep himself informed.’

  Mark had a picture of Simon employing a private detective, of furtive telephone conversations made from Simon’s study. Simon would have revelled in such dramatic secrecy. Bitterly he asked, ‘Has Dad helped you to find him?’

  ‘No. I asked him to. He said he couldn’t help, that he didn’t know anything. Maybe it’s true. Maybe since we grew up he thought the danger was past and gave up keeping track.’ Quickly he added, ‘The danger has past. Danny’s an old man. Incapable.’

  ‘You’ve found him.’

  Ben nodded. For a moment he looked guilty and Mark half expected him to apologise. Then Ben seemed to remember that he’d decided not to be guilty. He sat up straighter; he picked up his glass and took a long drink. Placing the glass down again he glanced at him only to look away. ‘You’ve gone green, Mark. If you’re going to be sick the toilets are along there.’

  ‘I’m not going to be sick.’

  ‘Good.’ Angrily he said, ‘Because that would be a bit of an over-reaction, wouldn’t it? Christ, Mark! I’ve found Danny. That’s all. I’m not suggesting we have a grand reunion!’

  About to speak, Mark heard his voice break and he cleared his throat. At last he managed, ‘Where did you find him?’

  Ben frowned. ‘What? I didn’t hear –’

  Louder, Mark said, ‘Where is he? In Thorp? Where?’

  ‘Calm down!’ Ben glanced around as though afraid they were causing a scene. Turning back to him he said, ‘He’s in Thorp.’

  ‘Where in Thorp?

  Ben sighed. ‘Listen Mark, I know this is hard for you. Don’t you think it was hard for me? I struggled with this, I didn’t want to upset Dad, or you…’

  ‘Tell me where he is!’

  ‘South Durham General.’

  ‘He’s sick?’

  Ben hesitated. ‘He’s dying.’

  Mark laughed, a harsh burst of noise, and Ben pursed his lips in distaste but seemed prepared to allow him his outburst. Eventually Ben said, ‘He has lung cancer.’

  ‘Good. Excellent. There is justice in the world.’ He looked at Ben, a bright, strained smile on his face. ‘How long has he got?’

  ‘Christ, Mark! Don’t you have any pity? Have you any idea what it’s like to die like that?’

  ‘Is it painful?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I didn’t expect this, even from you.’

  ‘What did you expect? Tears?’

  ‘No Mark. I know you only cry for yourself.’ He laughed shortly. ‘You’ll be feeling happier now, eh? Don’t have to be scared of the bogeyman any more.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll be even happier when he’s safely in the ground.’ He stood up. ‘Do you want another drink here or should we celebrate somewhere else?’

  ‘Sit down.’ Ben looked up at him in disgust. ‘Sit down, I haven’t finished.’

  Mark sat. To his surprise he felt curious now. He wanted to know everything that Ben knew, to wallow in information. He wanted to picture Danny in a hospital bed, see that pain had shrunk him so that he was nothing but grey skin and bones, an oxygen mask clamped around his face. He would be completely alone – even the nurses would sense his wickedness and see to him only when strictly necessary; he would be afraid. Mark wished that he believed in hell.

  Ben said, ‘We have three brothers.’ He glanced at him as if to gauge his reaction. ‘Colin, Graham and Steven. They all live in Thorp – on the Rosehill Estate. Steve is the youngest –’

  Mark stared at him. He held up his hand. ‘Stop. I don’t want to hear this.’ Shaking his head in astonishment he said, ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Well I think you should know! For once in your life listen! There’s this boy – our brother, Steve –’

  ‘I don’t care.’ He felt afraid again. The idea that Danny may have had another family had never occurred to him. He tried to imagine his sons, these half-brothers, and it was as if Danny had been resurrected from the grave he’d only just buried him in. He stood up and his legs felt shaky.

  Ben stood up too. He grabbed his arm but Mark shook him off and began to push through the crowded pub. Outside, the pub’s bouncers eyed him suspiciously as he stood drawing breath like a man who had just ran a marathon.

  Beside him Ben said, ‘Mark, don’t behave like this.’ Exasperated, he said, ‘I thought you should know! There are three young men walking around who are our family – close, blood family! We’ve never had so much as a distant cousin –’

  ‘We had Simon and Joy! They are my family, Ben! I’m not interested in some scum from the Rosehill Estate!’

  ‘They’re not scum, you bloody snob! Steve’s a decent lad –’

  ‘Where’s the taxi rank?’

  ‘What? You’re just going to go?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve told me all I need to know. There wasn’t anything else was there? Listen, let me know when he’s dead, I’ll crack open the champagne.’

  Behind them a voice said cautiously, ‘Hello, Ben…’

  Ben spun round and at once he smiled, embarrassed and apologetic at once. A boy had stepped from the shadow of the pub doorway into the yellow light of a street lamp and Mark stared in disbelief. Danny stood in front of him, smiling and holding out his hands in a placating gesture as if he was afraid he was about to run away. Mark thought his heart might burst through his chest. Above the pounding of his own blood he heard Ben say, ‘Mark, this is Steven, our half-brother.’

  * * *

  It was like I was surrendering to him – holding out my hands, palms up – as if to say don’t shoot. I was smiling, like one of those monkeys that act up to show the alpha male he isn’t worth killing, but I was still angry. I’d heard what he’d called us. Scum. We live on the estate – the estate, mind, it’s notorious – ergo we are scum.

  They have very nice voices my half brothers. They sound intelligent, gentle, a bit wry. Especially Mark. I’d heard him on Front Row, being interviewed by that Mark Lawson, and I remember thinking then how nice he sounded. Nice. It’s not a word I use much – it’s a bit wishy-washy. But it suits the middle-class, middle-aged, white sound my half brothers make. Listen to them and you imagine all they ever talk about is Art and Literature, with Radio 4 presenters hanging on their every round, soft, perfect syllable. You could fall in love just listening to voices like theirs.

  Mark is beautiful. There, let’s get that out of the way first. If he wasn’t my brother (half) I’d want him. Even now I’m thinking, well, it’s not as if we were brought up together, it’s not as if I feel related to him. But that’s disgust
ing, isn’t it? We are related; it’s even obvious we’re related. Ben told me I was Mark’s double. He couldn’t get over how much I looked like him; the first time he spoke to me he kept shaking his head and frowning in disbelief. I think it disturbed Ben that I was so much his brother’s image. A chav like me! I think Ben thought he’d fallen through a hole in time, into a parallel universe. He didn’t expect me at all when he started out on his quest. To Ben I’m the fairy that pops up in a puff of pink smoke on the road to the ogre’s castle.

  Mark isn’t queer, I’m pretty sure. Not even half queer like me. He’s not right, though – anyone can see that once you get past his lovely manners and heart breaking voice. It’s as if he traded in his life supply of happiness for being head-turning beautiful and realised long ago what a poisonous deal he’d got. I couldn’t take my eyes off him; I wanted him to look at me so I could somehow convince him that I was a good person and would help him not to be so sad. Ambitious, eh? I suppose I just wanted to comfort him. But he wouldn’t look at me, not even when Ben persuaded him to have a drink with us in the Green Tree.

  I don’t drink. I asked for a mineral water and Ben raised his eyebrows in that mild way of his, ‘Sparkling or still?’ Mark and I stood a couple of steps behind him as Ben was served at the bar and I’ve never felt so awkward in my life, as though I’d just said something really thoughtless and hurtful and was desperately trying to think of something to say to make up for it. I hadn’t said anything at all, only that chirpy Hiya! as I shook Mark’s hand.

  Ben handed me my glass of water. He said, ‘Shall we sit down?’ He looked at Mark as though he thought he’d been rude to keep me standing. The Green Tree is a quiet pub, there was even a free table by the open fire, three armchairs arranged around it as though it was set up especially for us to have a cosy family chat. The table was crowded with wine and beer glasses stained with lipstick; an ashtray overflowed with the stubs of menthol cigarettes. I thought, at least the girls had a good time. I helped Ben clear the glasses to the bar but Mark sat down. Immediately he lit a cigarette. I noticed that his hands shook a little.

  As I set my handful of glasses on the bar I said, ‘Ben, I think maybe I should go –’